


Heaven out of reach

by DecayingLiberty



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Heresy - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mythology - Freeform, Temporary Amnesia, fallen gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecayingLiberty/pseuds/DecayingLiberty
Summary: Marius takes revenge for Courfeyrac's banishment from the Realm of Gods.





	Heaven out of reach

**Author's Note:**

> Written for that [wonderful moodboard](http://inktaire.tumblr.com/post/166799406600/courfius-fallen-gods-au-for-decayingliberty-id) by inktaire on tumblr.

The ground shakes underneath his bare feet and Marius knows what will happen, knows the inevitable outcome of a series of conscious choices, each made with a clear mind and eyes wide open. This is a consequence of their actions, a punishment of some sort, only, Courfeyrac will be the one to pay for it. Marius’ hands are bound, almost literally.

The bone mask sits heavy on his face, his breath ricochets off the the material and warms the ice beneath his skin, remnants of tears that have been shed for aeons, from when he was a new god, before he grew into the the worship and the prayers that the mortals have offered the god who took his place before him. Marius is glad that his face is hidden. Though he is experienced to not show emotion, still, he cannot control the way his teeth clench together to stop the tears from falling or how is lip is twitching and trembling with every word that exiles Courfeyrac from the Realm of Gods.

He dares not to look.

He dares not to look but Courfeyrac is looking at him with eyes burning and prayers so loud they drown out the judgement that has been branded into his mind, and Marius wants to tell him to stop. He is not worthy of worship any more, least of all Courfeyrac’s because Marius is the very reason that Courfeyrac will no longer be able to exist in this realm.

“Then, so shall it be.”

Thunder and lightning strike from the ceiling and Courfeyrac’s vessel is burning.

Marius bites his lip to stop himself from crying out.

 

* * *

Courfeyrac’s temples crumble.

Through earthquakes, through accidents, through fires.

Artworks shatter, blessings turn empty.

When Marius refuses to flood to the last shrine, they shackle him and lock him out of council.

 

* * *

Earth is burning, Earth is drowning.

Mabeuf cradles one of his companions in his arm, a small earthen creature, trying to reassure it as the image of its dying home hovers before them. He looks resigned, sad, but he smiles at Marius nonetheless.

Éponine is yelling at Marius as she watches the plants she holds so dear disappear one by one. “What have you done, what have you done?”

Marius stares at her, how the flowers in her hair wilt and fall and crumble, not like autumn leaves do, no, this is more final, and her powers flicker dangerously low.  Her mask bears little cracks, little pieces split off. He wants to apologize. But he can’t.

“Don’t just stand there! _Do something!_ ”

Marius shows her the filigree silver shackles around his wrists and she slams her fists into his chest and pushes him away.

Her prayer is a blood curdling scream filled with rage and agony.

 

* * *

Courfeyrac’s mask sits in the First Hall, the place where new gods choose their powers when they first arrive in this realm, and later claim their mask when they have grown of age. Sometimes, it takes no more than a few weeks. Other times, aeons.

Courfeyrac’s mask has been mounted onto the wall amongst other masks, rows of bone white empty shells that seem to hide a void in their vacant stare. If Marius didn’t know the mask so well he would have missed it. Courfeyrac’s mask is not simple like his own, but by no means special, unique, for sure but nor more elaborate or extravagant than others.

To Marius, it is special. It has been a part of Courfeyrac for as long as Marius could remember, so unconditionally intertwined with Courfeyrac’s being that Marius cannot fathom that another God might claim it. Marius reaches out to take it.

Light steps pad into the hall, echoing through the massive room, even though it is not empty at all and Marius stops as the young god settles next to him, rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet like he had too much energy to spare.

“They have said that we are not allowed to touch the masks,” he says.

“I know,” Marius says and retracts his hand to hide the shackles from sight, yet their jangling give away their presence but the young god doesn’t ask though Marius can feel his curious stare.

“I like looking at them,” says the young god. “They all have stories to tell and sometimes, I think they are talking to me.”

Marius smiles behind his mask. “What’s your name?” he asks.

The young god shakes his head. “I don’t have a name yet,” he says, “they call me Chaos. What about you?”

Marius shakes his head. “You don’t want to know me.”

“I’m all right with that,” Chaos says. He points to a mask a few above Courfeyrac’s. “He said the same, you know, the last god who wore this mask. ‘You don’t want to know me. I have done terrible things,’ he said.” Chaos looks down. “And yet, he was nice to me.”

“Yeah... I knew him.”

“He did not want to see it, all the lives that were lost because of war. He thought it was his fault, so he mourned each of them.”

“Do you think it was his fault?”

“No, it was not his fault. It was the Grandfather’s fault. He, who rules over the humans. He let them be able to think of war and commit atrocities. And then he put Bahorel in charge to fix this, and when he couldn’t...” Chaos wipes his tears angrily and Marius places a comforting hand on the young god’s head.

“When I’m grown, I will claim this mask,” Chaos continues, “and Grandfather will pay for it.”

“You want Grandfather dead?”

“For what he did to him.”

Marius thinks for a while. “He will pay for it,” he says. Then he takes Bahorel’s mask from the wall and hands it to Chaos who looks at him with wide eyes. “Here, take it,” Marius says, “keep it safe. When the time is right, claim it and run.”

“But —”

“Trust me.”

Chaos carefully takes the mask and vanishes.

 

* * *

Killing a god is not so different than hunting. Aim, fire, hit. Maybe the target struggles, maybe it goes into shock. Gods and humans and animals, they all are not so different after all.

Blood trickles down the marble throne on which Grandfather rests upon, chest heaving around the wound on his chest as the realization sets in that he is dying. His mask is discarded and shattered on the floor. Beneath them, the ground rumbles, the realm raising its head and roaring in agony because the magic that held it together is fading. Above them, bells are ringing.

“M-my son,” Grandfather says, “Help me.”

Indifferent and unmoving, Marius watches the life drain from Grandfather’s eyes, watches the old god struggle against the icy grip of whatever awaits them after this life. Marius feels calm, he doesn’t regret.

A last breath, and the old god turns to dust.

Marius offers no prayer.

There are no shackles around his wrists any more and his vessel dissolves into fog.

 

* * *

Bright light falls over his closed eyelids and the smell of rain and a nearby forest fill his nose. In the distant, cars are driving by, a rumbling truck, the loud howling of a motorcycle rushing by. He opens his eyes and finds himself standing at a lonely bus stop.

He does not remember how he got here. In fact, he does not remember anything at all, neither his name, nor his address nor today’s date. His head is empty and the world is full, twisting and turning and tumbling thoughts that are not coherent, yet somehow he knows how this world works.

He sets off in the direction in which the cars are driving, following the street and he maybe will find a place where he could gather his thoughts or help his memory. He pats down his pockets and looks through his bag, but they only contain a purse with coins and two masks that clink against one another with every step. It is frightening to walk unfamiliar roads with nothing but the things he carries.

At the end of the street where it takes a sharp curve, cradled by the bending street, he finds a little café with a white façade adorned by strings of light. The air is warm when he pushes the door and comfortable chatter and white noise immediately soothe his frayed nerves. He takes a seat at one of the tables and orders a hot chocolate.

And while he waits for his drink, he tries not to think too much, tries not to think of what he is missing, of what does not know because there is fog in his brain, jammed so full of cotton that it’s hard to even hear himself think. So he doesn’t.

His order arrives and the mug warms his cold hands, he remembers suddenly that they have always been cold and when he takes a sip, he knows that he has had hot chocolate before. The warmth is comforting, maybe he even feels a bit wistful, a bit nostalgic.

He closes his eyes, relishes in the feeling of comfort, of a strange kind of familiarity when suddenly warm hands cover his own over the mug and when he opens his eyes again and sees a pair of mismatched eyes and dark curls, the world seems to make a little more sense.

“I’ve missed you,” says Courfeyrac.

**Author's Note:**

> Gavroche is Chaos.
> 
> It's 3am and I am dying.
> 
> Anyhow, thank you for reading! Let me know what you think, either in the comments or on [my tumblr](https://decayingliberty.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
